Amber Spring





No unusual circumstances was it for Oldring and some of his men



to visit Cottonwoods in the broad light of day, but for him to



prowl about in the dark with the hoofs of his horses muffled



meant that mischief was brewing. Moreover, to Venters the



presence of the masked rider with Oldring seemed especially



ominous. For about this man there was mystery, he seldom rode



through the village, and when he did ride through it was swiftly;



riders seldom met by day on the sage, but wherever he rode there



always followed deeds as dark and mysterious as the mask he wore.



Oldring's band did not confine themselves to the rustling of



cattle.







Venters lay low in the shade of the cottonwoods, pondering this



chance meeting, and not for many moments did he consider it safe



to move on. Then, with sudden impulse, he turned the other way



and went back along the grove. When he reached the path leading



to Jane's home he decided to go down to the village. So he



hurried onward, with quick soft steps. Once beyond the grove he



entered the one and only street. It was wide, lined with tall



poplars, and under each row of trees, inside the foot-path, were



ditches where ran the water from Jane Withersteen's spring.







Between the trees twinkled lights of cottage candles, and far



down flared bright windows of the village stores. When Venters



got closer to these he saw knots of men standing together in



earnest conversation. The usual lounging on the corners and



benches and steps was not in evidence. Keeping in the shadow



Venters went closer and closer until he could hear voices. But he



could not distinguish what was said. He recognized many Mormons,



and looked hard for Tull and his men, but looked in vain.



Venters concluded that the rustlers had not passed along the



village street. No doubt these earnest men were discussing



Lassiter's coming. But Venters felt positive that Tull's



intention toward himself that day had not been and would not be



revealed.







So Venters, seeing there was little for him to learn, began



retracing his steps. The church was dark, Bishop Dyer's home next



to it was also dark, and likewise Tull's cottage. Upon almost any



night at this hour there would be lights here, and Venters marked



the unusual omission.







As he was about to pass out of the street to skirt the grove, he



once more slunk down at the sound of trotting horses. Presently



he descried two mounted men riding toward him. He hugged the



shadow of a tree. Again the starlight, brighter now, aided him,



and he made out Tull's stalwart figure, and beside him the short,



froglike shape of the rider Jerry. They were silent, and they



rode on to disappear.







Venters went his way with busy, gloomy mind, revolving events of



the day, trying to reckon those brooding in the night. His



thoughts overwhelmed him. Up in that dark grove dwelt a woman who



had been his friend. And he skulked about her home, gripping a



gun stealthily as an Indian, a man without place or people or



purpose. Above her hovered the shadow of grim, hidden, secret



power. No queen could have given more royally out of a bounteous



store than Jane Withersteen gave her people, and likewise to



those unfortunates whom her people hated. She asked only the



divine right of all women--freedom; to love and to live as her



heart willed. And yet prayer and her hope were vain.







"For years I've seen a storm clouding over her and the village of



Cottonwoods," muttered Venters, as he strode on. "Soon it'll



burst. I don't like the prospects." That night the villagers



whispered in the street--and night-riding rustlers muffled



horses--and Tull was at work in secret--and out there in the sage



hid a man who meant something terrible--Lassiter!







Venters passed the black cottonwoods, and, entering the sage,



climbed the gradual slope. He kept his direction in line with a



western star. From time to time he stopped to listen and heard



only the usual familiar bark of coyote and sweep of wind and



rustle of sage. Presently a low jumble of rocks loomed up darkly



somewhat to his right, and, turning that way, he whistled softly.



Out of the rocks glided a dog that leaped and whined about him.



He climbed over rough, broken rock, picking his way carefully,



and then went down. Here it was darker, and sheltered from the



wind. A white object guided him. It was another dog, and this one



was asleep, curled up between a saddle and a pack. The animal



awoke and thumped his tail in greeting. Venters placed the saddle



for a pillow, rolled in his blankets, with his face upward to the



stars. The white dog snuggled close to him. The other whined and



pattered a few yards to the rise of ground and there crouched on



guard. And in that wild covert Venters shut his eyes under the



great white stars and intense vaulted blue, bitterly comparing



their loneliness to his own, and fell asleep.







When he awoke, day had dawned and all about him was bright



steel-gray. The air had a cold tang. Arising, he greeted the



fawning dogs and stretched his cramped body, and then, gathering



together bunches of dead sage sticks, he lighted a fire. Strips



of dried beef held to the blaze for a moment served him and the



dogs. He drank from a canteen. There was nothing else in his



outfit; he had grown used to a scant fire. Then he sat over the



fire, palms outspread, and waited. Waiting had been his chief



occupation for months, and he scarcely knew what he waited for



unless it was the passing of the hours. But now he sensed action



in the immediate present; the day promised another meeting with



Lassiter and Lane, perhaps news of the rustlers; on the morrow he



meant to take the trail to Deception Pass.







And while he waited he talked to his dogs. He called them Ring



and Whitie; they were sheep-dogs, half collie, half deerhound,



superb in build, perfectly trained. It seemed that in his fallen



fortunes these dogs understood the nature of their value to him,



and governed their affection and faithfulness accordingly. Whitie



watched him with somber eyes of love, and Ring, crouched on the



little rise of ground above, kept tireless guard. When the sun



rose, the white dog took the place of the other, and Ring went to



sleep at his master's feet.







By and by Venters rolled up his blankets and tied them and his



meager pack together, then climbed out to look for his horse. He



saw him, presently, a little way off in the sage, and went to



fetch him. In that country, where every rider boasted of a fine



mount and was eager for a race, where thoroughbreds dotted the



wonderful grazing ranges, Venters rode a horse that was sad proof



of his misfortunes.







Then, with his back against a stone, Venters faced the east, and,



stick in hand and idle blade, he waited. The glorious sunlight



filled the valley with purple fire. Before him, to left, to



right, waving, rolling, sinking, rising, like low swells of a



purple sea, stretched the sage. Out of the grove of cottonwoods,



a green patch on the purple, gleamed the dull red of Jane



Withersteen's old stone house. And from there extended the wide



green of the village gardens and orchards marked by the graceful



poplars; and farther down shone the deep, dark richness of the



alfalfa fields. Numberless red and black and white dots speckled



the sage, and these were cattle and horses.







So, watching and waiting, Venters let the time wear away. At



length he saw a horse rise above a ridge, and he knew it to be



Lassiter's black. Climbing to the highest rock, so that he would



show against the sky-line, he stood and waved his hat. The almost



instant turning of Lassiter's horse attested to the quickness of



that rider's eye. Then Venters climbed down, saddled his horse,



tied on his pack, and, with a word to his dogs, was about to ride



out to meet Lassiter, when he concluded to wait for him there, on



higher ground, where the outlook was commanding.







It had been long since Venters had experienced friendly greeting



from a man. Lassiter's warmed in him something that had grown



cold from neglect. And when he had returned it, with a strong



grip of the iron hand that held his, and met the gray eyes, he



knew that Lassiter and he were to be friends.







"Venters, let's talk awhile before we go down there," said



Lassiter, slipping his bridle. "I ain't in no hurry. Them's sure



fine dogs you've got." With a rider's eye he took in the points



of Venter's horse, but did not speak his thought. "Well, did



anythin' come off after I left you last night?"







Venters told him about the rustlers.







"I was snug hid in the sage," replied Lassiter, "an' didn't see



or hear no one. Oldrin's got a high hand here, I reckon. It's no



news up in Utah how he holes in canyons an' leaves no track."



Lassiter was silent a moment. "Me an' Oldrin' wasn't exactly



strangers some years back when he drove cattle into Bostil's



Ford, at the head of the Rio Virgin. But he got harassed there



an' now he drives some place else."







"Lassiter, you knew him? Tell me, is he Mormon or Gentile?"







"I can't say. I've knowed Mormons who pretended to be Gentiles."







"No Mormon ever pretended that unless he was a rustler" declared



Venters.







"Mebbe so."







"It's a hard country for any one, but hardest for Gentiles. Did



you ever know or hear of a Gentile prospering in a Mormon



community?"







"I never did."







"Well, I want to get out of Utah. I've a mother living in



Illinois. I want to go home. It's eight years now."







The older man's sympathy moved Venters to tell his story. He had



left Quincy, run off to seek his fortune in the gold fields had



never gotten any farther than Salt Lake City, wandered here and



there as helper, teamster, shepherd, and drifted southward over



the divide and across the barrens and up the rugged plateau



through the passes to the last border settlements. Here he became



a rider of the sage, had stock of his own, and for a time



prospered, until chance threw him in the employ of Jane



Withersteen.







"Lassiter, I needn't tell you the rest."







"Well, it'd be no news to me. I know Mormons. I've seen their



women's strange love en' patience en' sacrifice an' silence en'



whet I call madness for their idea of God. An' over against that



I've seen the tricks of men. They work hand in hand, all



together, an' in the dark. No man can hold out against them,



unless he takes to packin' guns. For Mormons are slow to kill.



That's the only good I ever seen in their religion. Venters, take



this from me, these Mormons ain't just right in their minds. Else



could a Mormon marry one woman when he already has a wife, an'



call it duty?"







"Lassiter, you think as I think," returned Venters.







"How'd it come then that you never throwed a gun on Tull or some



of them?" inquired the rider, curiously.







"Jane pleaded with me, begged me to be patient, to overlook. She



even took my guns from me. I lost all before I knew it," replied



Venters, with the red color in his face. "But, Lassiter, listen.



"Out of the wreck I saved a Winchester, two Colts, and plenty of



shells. I packed these down into Deception Pass. There, almost



every day for six months, I have practiced with my rifle till the



barrel burnt my hands. Practised the draw--the firing of a Colt,



hour after hour!"







"Now that's interestin' to me," said Lassiter, with a quick



uplift of his head and a concentration of his gray gaze on



Venters. "Could you throw a gun before you began that



practisin'?"







"Yes. And now..." Venters made a lightning-swift movement.







Lassiter smiled, and then his bronzed eyelids narrowed till his



eyes seemed mere gray slits. "You'll kill Tull!" He did not



question; he affirmed.







"I promised Jane Withersteen I'd try to avoid Tull. I'll keep my



word. But sooner or later Tull and I will meet. As I feel now, if



he even looks at me I'll draw!"







"I reckon so. There'll be hell down there, presently." He paused



a moment and flicked a sage-brush with his quirt. "Venters,



seein' as you're considerable worked up, tell me Milly Erne's



story."







Venters's agitation stilled to the trace of suppressed eagerness



in Lassiter's query.







"Milly Erne's story? Well, Lassiter, I'll tell you what I know.



Milly Erne had been in Cottonwoods years when I first arrived



there, and most of what I tell you happened before my arrival. I



got to know her pretty well. She was a slip of a woman, and crazy



on religion. I conceived an idea that I never mentioned--I



thought she was at heart more Gentile than Mormon. But she passed



as a Mormon, and certainly she had the Mormon woman's locked



lips. You know, in every Mormon village there are women who seem



mysterious to us, but about Milly there was more than the



ordinary mystery. When she came to Cottonwoods she had a



beautiful little girl whom she loved passionately. Milly was not



known openly in Cottonwoods as a Mormon wife. That she really was



a Mormon wife I have no doubt. Perhaps the Mormon's other wife or



wives would not acknowledge Milly. Such things happen in these



villages. Mormon wives wear yokes, but they get jealous. Well,



whatever had brought Milly to this country-- love or madness of



religion--she repented of it. She gave up teaching the village



school. She quit the church. And she began to fight Mormon



upbringing for her baby girl. Then the Mormons put on the



screws-- slowly, as is their way. At last the child disappeared.



'Lost' was the report. The child was stolen, I know that. So do



you. That wrecked Milly Erne. But she lived on in hope. She



became a slave. She worked her heart and soul and life out to get



back her child. She never heard of it again. Then she sank....I



can see her now, a frail thing, so transparent you could almost



look through her--white like ashes--and her eyes!...Her eyes have



always haunted me. She had one real friend--Jane Withersteen. But



Jane couldn't mend a broken heart, and Milly died."







For moments Lassiter did not speak, or turn his head.







"The man!" he exclaimed, presently, in husky accents.







"I haven't the slightest idea who the Mormon was," replied



Venters; "nor has any Gentile in Cottonwoods."







"Does Jane Withersteen know?"







"Yes. But a red-hot running-iron couldn't burn that name out of



her!"







Without further speech Lassiter started off, walking his horse



and Venters followed with his dogs. Half a mile down the slope



they entered a luxuriant growth of willows, and soon came into an



open space carpeted with grass like deep green velvet. The



rushing of water and singing of birds filled their ears. Venters



led his comrade to a shady bower and showed him Amber Spring. It



was a magnificent outburst of clear, amber water pouring from a



dark, stone-lined hole. Lassiter knelt and drank, lingered there



to drink again. He made no comment, but Venters did not need



words. Next to his horse a rider of the sage loved a spring. And



this spring was the most beautiful and remarkable known to the



upland riders of southern Utah. It was the spring that made old



Withersteen a feudal lord and now enabled his daughter to return



the toll which her father had exacted from the toilers of the



sage.







The spring gushed forth in a swirling torrent, and leaped down



joyously to make its swift way along a willow-skirted channel.



Moss and ferns and lilies overhung its green banks. Except for



the rough-hewn stones that held and directed the water, this



willow thicket and glade had been left as nature had made it.







Below were artificial lakes, three in number, one above the other



in banks of raised earth, and round about them rose the lofty



green-foliaged shafts of poplar trees. Ducks dotted the glassy



surface of the lakes; a blue heron stood motionless on a



water-gate; kingfishers darted with shrieking flight along the



shady banks; a white hawk sailed above; and from the trees and



shrubs came the song of robins and cat-birds. It was all in



strange contrast to the endless slopes of lonely sage and the



wild rock environs beyond. Venters thought of the woman who loved



the birds and the green of the leaves and the murmur of the



water.







Next on the slope, just below the third and largest lake, were



corrals and a wide stone barn and open sheds and coops and pens.



Here were clouds of dust, and cracking sounds of hoofs, and



romping colts and heehawing burros. Neighing horses trampled to



the corral fences. And on the little windows of the barn



projected bobbing heads of bays and blacks and sorrels. When the



two men entered the immense barnyard, from all around the din



increased. This welcome, however, was not seconded by the several



men and boys who vanished on sight.







Venters and Lassiter were turning toward the house when Jane



appeared in the lane leading a horse. In riding-skirt and blouse



she seemed to have lost some of her statuesque proportions, and



looked more like a girl rider than the mistress of Withersteen.



She was brightly smiling, and her greeting was warmly cordial.







"Good news," she announced. "I've been to the village. All is



quiet. I expected--I don't know what. But there's no excitement.



And Tull has ridden out on his way to Glaze."







"Tull gone?" inquired Venters, with surprise. He was wondering



what could have taken Tull away. Was it to avoid another meeting



with Lassiter that he went? Could it have any connection with the



probable nearness of Oldring and his gang?







"Gone, yes, thank goodness," replied Jane. "Now I'll have peace



for a while. Lassiter, I want you to see my horses. You are a



rider, and you must be a judge of horseflesh. Some of mine have



Arabian blood. My father got his best strain in Nevada from



Indians who claimed their horses were bred down from the original



stock left by the Spaniards."







"Well, ma'am, the one you've been ridin' takes my eye," said



Lassiter, as he walked round the racy, clean-limbed, and



fine-pointed roan.







"Where are the boys?" she asked, looking about. "Jerd, Paul,



where are you? Here, bring out the horses."







The sound of dropping bars inside the barn was the signal for the



horses to jerk their heads in the windows, to snort and stamp.



Then they came pounding out of the door, a file of thoroughbreds,



to plunge about the barnyard, heads and tails up, manes flying.



They halted afar off, squared away to look, came slowly forward



with whinnies for their mistress, and doubtful snorts for the



strangers and their horses.







"Come--come--come," called Jane, holding out her hands. "Why,



Bells-- Wrangle, where are your manners? Come, Black Star--come,



Night. Ah, you beauties! My racers of the sage!"







Only two came up to her; those she called Night and Black Star.



Venters never looked at them without delight. The first was soft



dead black, the other glittering black, and they were perfectly



matched in size, both being high and long-bodied, wide through



the shoulders, with lithe, powerful legs. That they were a



woman's pets showed in the gloss of skin, the fineness of mane.



It showed, too, in the light of big eyes and the gentle reach of



eagerness.







"I never seen their like," was Lassiter's encomium, "an' in my



day I've seen a sight of horses. Now, ma'am, if you was wantin'



to make a long an' fast ride across the sage--say to



elope--"







Lassiter ended there with dry humor, yet behind that was meaning.



Jane blushed and made arch eyes at him.







"Take care, Lassiter, I might think that a proposal," she



replied, gaily. "It's dangerous to propose elopement to a Mormon



woman. Well, I was expecting you. Now will be a good hour to show



you Milly Erne's grave. The day-riders have gone, and the



night-riders haven't come in. Bern, what do you make of that?



Need I worry? You know I have to be made to worry."







"Well, it's not usual for the night shift to ride in so late,"



replied Venters, slowly, and his glance sought Lassiter's.



"Cattle are usually quiet after dark. Still, I've known even a



coyote to stampede your white herd."







"I refuse to borrow trouble. Come," said Jane.







They mounted, and, with Jane in the lead, rode down the lane,



and, turning off into a cattle trail, proceeded westward.



Venters's dogs trotted behind them. On this side of the ranch the



outlook was different from that on the other; the immediate



foreground was rough and the sage more rugged and less colorful;



there were no dark-blue lines of canyons to hold the eye, nor any



uprearing rock walls. It was a long roll and slope into gray



obscurity. Soon Jane left the trail and rode into the sage, and



presently she dismounted and threw her bridle. The men did



likewise. Then, on foot, they followed her, coming out at length



on the rim of a low escarpment. She passed by several little



ridges of earth to halt before a faintly defined mound. It lay in



the shade of a sweeping sage-brush close to the edge of the



promontory; and a rider could have jumped his horse over it



without recognizing a grave.







"Here!"







She looked sad as she spoke, but she offered no explanation for



the neglect of an unmarked, uncared-for grave. There was a little



bunch of pale, sweet lavender daisies, doubtless planted there by



Jane.







"I only come here to remember and to pray," she said. "But I



leave no trail!"







A grave in the sage! How lonely this resting-place of Milly Erne!



The cottonwoods or the alfalfa fields were not in sight, nor was



there any rock or ridge or cedar to lend contrast to the



monotony. Gray slopes, tinging the purple, barren and wild, with



the wind waving the sage, swept away to the dim



horizon.







Lassiter looked at the grave and then out into space. At that



moment he seemed a figure of bronze.







Jane touched Venters's arm and led him back to the horses.







"Bern!" cried Jane, when they were out of hearing. "Suppose



Lassiter were Milly's husband--the father of that little girl



lost so long ago!"







"It might be, Jane. Let us ride on. If he wants to see us again



he'll come."







So they mounted and rode out to the cattle trail and began to



climb. From the height of the ridge, where they had started down,



Venters looked back. He did not see Lassiter, but his glance,



drawn irresistibly farther out on the gradual slope, caught sight



of a moving cloud of dust.







"Hello, a rider!"







"Yes, I see," said Jane.







"That fellow's riding hard. Jane, there's something wrong."







"Oh yes, there must be....How he rides!"







The horse disappeared in the sage, and then puffs of dust marked



his course.







"He's short-cut on us--he's making straight for the corrals."







Venters and Jane galloped their steeds and reined in at the



turning of the lane. This lane led down to the right of the



grove. Suddenly into its lower entrance flashed a bay horse. Then



Venters caught the fast rhythmic beat of pounding hoofs. Soon his



keen eye recognized the swing of the rider in his saddle.







"It's Judkins, your Gentile rider!" he cried. "Jane, when Judkins



rides like that it means hell!"





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